The Shadow of the Crow
by lucidscreamer
Summary: He awoke, sprawled like a broken doll, on a bridge made of shadows. FUSION with The Crow. Major character death. Rated for language and dark themes.
1. Chapter 1

started: 10/24/2018

Disclaimer: Yu-Gi-Oh! is the creation of Kazuki Takahashi. The Crow: Stairway to Heaven is based on the characters created by James O'Barr. No ownership of the canon characters, settings, or events is claimed and none should be implied. The introductory monologue is quoted from TC:StH.

The words of this story are mine and may not be archived on a site other than AO3, published, translated, or performed without the express permission of the author.

Continuity note: This takes place in an alternate universe where Duel Monsters is just a card game. While tournaments took place, they were simply contests, not "fate of the world" battles, and Seto's rivalry with Yugi is based strictly on Seto's ego (not a past life in ancient Egypt). I've borrowed the concept of the Crow from that universe, but have tweaked the mechanics to better fit with the YGO universe.

This is a WIP; as such, everything is subject to change. I've not decided upon exactly how the relationship between Yugi and Yami works here, other than that I'm using mostly early manga Yami as inspiration for Crow!Yami.

NOTE: I can't edit documents on because they will not display for me. It's probably a browser issue, but there's nothing I can do about it. So, if there are typos, please just ignore them unless they're _extremely_ distracting. (Fixing them requires me to use 2 separate computers (one to write and one to upload), and then completely upload a new copy of the chapter.) Or you can read this story on AO3, where everything will look much nicer and all the scene breaks will be displayed properly.

o0o

Shadow of the Crow

(A Yu-Gi-Oh!/The Crow: Stairway to Heaven Fusion Fic)

By Lucidscreamer

 _People once believed that when someone dies a crow carries their soul to the land of the dead. But, sometimes, something so bad happens that a terrible sadness is carried with it and the soul can't rest._ _But sometimes, just sometimes, the crow can bring the soul back to put the wrong things right._

Chapter 1

 _The times have been,_

 _That, when the brains were out, the man would die,_

 _And there an end; but now they rise again,_

 _...Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold;_

 _...Hence, horrible shadow!_

\- Shakespeare, (Macbeth, Act iii. Sc. 4)

He awoke, sprawled like a broken doll, on a bridge built of shadows.

The air was heavy with a dense, gray fog. Moisture clung to him, condensing to drip from the tips of the blond bangs hanging like a veil over his eyes. The drops streaked his face like cold tears. His body felt stiff and chilled to the bone, and his limbs jerked as if unused to movement when he tried to sit up. It took him far too long to roll onto his side, and even longer to push himself up until his weight was braced on his shaking arms.

Beneath his hands, the boards of the bridge felt slick. They looked a bit like wood, but were the color of ashes, with a surface that seemed to shift and change the more he tried to focus on it. Just raising his head exhausted him, but the new position let him take in more of his surroundings. It was a monochromatic world. Dark, spindly forms, indistinct in the fog, loomed in the distance. They might have been trees or the skeletons of giants. The bridge swayed with the breath of the wind and - far, _far_ below - a pale sliver of river snaked through a deep chasm bounded by jagged, gray cliffs. The wind moaned around him, agitating the fog into grotesque shapes and arabesques, like smoke rising from an unseen fire.

Somewhere above him, a bird gave a lonesome cry.

Looking up, he caught the fleeting impression of great black wings before the flying shape merged with the fog, which had slowly darkened from pale gray to charcoal. The boards beneath him were growing colder, less substantial. His weight sank into them, even as he tried to crawl free. The fog darkened again, shading to pitch, as if the color of the bridge was sublimating into the billowing clouds. And then his eyes widened as he looked more closely and saw that it wasn't just the color; the bridge _itself_ was twisting apart like smoke as it merged with the fog. The distant, anchoring ends were already gone and, as he watched, the span on both sides of him drifted into vapor and swirled up into the lowering sky.

His hands scrabbled uselessly at the boards beneath him. Unable to find purchase, he could only watch in horror as his only support boiled away into the fog. He glanced down. Unfortunately, the drop into the chasm hadn't gotten any shorter while he wasn't looking. And the bridge was fast vanishing into nothingness around him.

The bird _cawed_ again, and this time it sounded like a command.

He looked up, but saw nothing but black shadows writhing and twisting like ink dropped into troubled waters. His fingers grasped at empty air as the last of the bridge dissolved beneath his body. He screamed as he plunged into the abyss.

His voice, echoing in the vastness of the chasm, flew above him on the storm winds, becoming one with the doleful cry of the crow.

o0o

His landing was every bit as painful as anticipated, though there were fewer broken bones than he'd expected. For a time - and it could have been minutes or hours or years - he lay where he'd fallen, flat on his back in what looked like a vacant lot, and stared blankly up at the leaden sky. His eyes tracked the racing clouds, pushed by a wind he could feel like icy fingers tugging at his hair and clothes. Behind the dark silhouette of the skyline, traces of pink heralded the approach of dawn.

Unbidden, a scrap of doggerel drifted across his mind like a bit of detritus tossed about by the wind:

 _Red sky at night, sailor's delight_

 _Red sky at morning, sailor take warning_.

 _Warning_ , _warning, warning_... The word echoed in his head, like the crow's call or the heartbeat he couldn't feel when he pressed his hand to his chest. It was a dark voice, deeper than the night and filled with shadows. _Something's coming, coming back..._

 _I am_ , he thought, head pounding with the beat of the words. _Who am I?_

As the first raindrops struck his upturned face, he heard the crow again. The thing inside him - the thing with the voice like midnight - urged him to his feet. Stumbling through the tall, dead weeds, black boots catching on nothing as he tried to find his balance, he gave in to his new instincts.

He followed the crow.

o0o

Even with the bird to guide him, his steps felt aimless as he wandered the streets of the city in which he found himself. He didn't know where he was going or why he was going there. He had no name for this place or himself. He simply was. He was and the Voice was, the dark voice in his heart. And the Voice said he needed to follow the crow, so he did.

The rain fell in a steady drizzle, not enough to hinder his progress but heavy enough to make his shoulders hunch miserably about his ears. His boots splashed in the forming puddles on the sidewalk, soaking the hems of his black jeans. His reflection, glimpsed in a store window, looked every bit as miserable as he felt: bedraggled hair limp and tangled around a young, pale face with wide, periwinkle blue eyes and a frowning mouth. When he spotted a hooded jacket carelessly tossed over the back of a bench, he snagged it without even considering the action. He shrugged into the jacket and tugged the hood up to cover his head. With his face concealed in the shadow of the hood, he felt a little bit better. More at ease in his skin, even though he still moved as if he were having trouble fitting into his body.

He wasn't sure how long he wandered, just that it was still raining when the bird led him to the small, oddly shaped building on a street corner. Fluttering its black wings, the crow settled onto the awning above the front entrance and uttered an imperious _caw_. Cocking his head, he studied the building, trying to deduce why the bird had brought him here.

There was something familiar about the shape of the facade and the small greenspace between the sidewalk and the street. There was a sign stuck in the grass; after studying it for several seconds, he realized the sign was shaped like a green turtle. That made something in the back of his muddled thoughts twinge, as if he should know the significance of that shape. He tilted his head back, letting his gaze roam over the protruberances on the roof. The building didn't have a large footprint, but it went up two floors - no, three with that dormer window above the entrance, though the third floor might be a little cramped. Darker shapes in the fading green paint, where lettering had clearly been removed, spelled out the word "game."

He froze, body beginning to tremble from the sudden tension in his muscles, as he tried to understand why that simple word had such a profound affect on him. He didn't know why, but he knew that word - this building - was important. It had meant something to him, once. Something that, even now, when he remembered nothing, stabbed at his heart like a raven's beak.

Slowly, he moved closer to the shop, his eyes darting this way and that as he tried to figure out what he should know, _remember_ , about this place. He couldn't quite grasp the memory, but everything inside him was telling him that he knew this shop. Or had known it, before the bridge. But there was something off about it, now. Something...

Close up, it was easy to see what that something was. The inside of the shop, visible through the front display window, was dark and empty. A few metal shelves stood forelornly in the center of the retail space, but the only things they held were dust and shadows. The window was dingy and smeared, while his mind told him the glass should be gleaming. A plastic sign, attached to the inside of the window, read "For Lease" with a realtor's number underneath, but a large banner hung across the top with "Coming Soon!" in an obnoxious orange font. He didn't bother to read the smaller print underneath.

His hands shook as he pushed them into his hair, combing the wet strands back from his face. If his heart were still beating, he thought it would be racing. Moving like a sleepwalker, he shuffled over to the entrance. The door that he somehow knew led up to a family apartment above the shop. The family apartment that no longer held a family.

As one in a dream, he drifted inside as easily as if he were truly a formless spirit, a ghost invading the space he was meant to haunt. He felt nothing but a brief sensation of utter cold and darkness, and then he was inside the deserted game shop.

The interior was filled with empty shelves and shadows. A pervasive shroud of despair seemed to hang over the silence, and the noise his boot heels made as they struck the floor sounded like gunshots. Each one set off a flash of images in his mind: step, flash - a loud crack and blinding light - step, flash. He froze after only a few steps, hands curling into fists tight enough to drive his nails into the soft flesh of his palms. When he looked at them, his hands each bore four perfect crescents that oozed a thick black substance before healing over as if they'd never been. Shaking, he blew away the black ash left behind, leaving only unmarked skin.

It was too strange; he couldn't dwell on it or he'd go mad. Pressing his hands against his jeans, he wiped them roughly enough to remove the feeling of the ash, then jerked his head sharply to one side. The bird was there, sitting on the bottom step of an inset staircase near the back of the room. It tilted its head at him, then hopped impatiently onto the next step, as if goading him to follow.

Reluctantly, he walked to the back of the room - step, flash - and stumbled up the stairs.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

 _And much of Madness, and more of Sin,_

 _And Horror the soul of the plot._

\- Poe, (The Conqueror Worm)

The room he found at the top of the stairs was empty, with that peculiar ambiance of long-abandoned spaces. Dust clung to every visible surface, hung thick in the wan light from the windows. The furniture that might have filled the space was long gone, but he thought he could see the ghosts of it from the corner of his eye. A chair here, a table there. The brief flash of a red-haired woman in the kitchen doorway, and of a gray-haired old man laughing as he set a deck of playing cards on the coffee table.

He stumbled a few more steps to the center of the room before his knees gave out and he crashed to the floor. Pain sparked through his legs, but it was nothing compared to the pain in his head, as strange images flashed before his mind's eye. His head spun with glimpses of faces, snatches of conversation. With nothing to give them context, none of the images made sense and he couldn't understand what they were trying to tell him. Who were these people? What were they to him? What was he to them? He couldn't remember, and it _hurt_.

One hand clutching his aching head, he forced his body to rise and stagger over to the second set of stairs that he could see across the room. He pushed himself past the disorientation, past the pain, and half-climbed, half-crawled up. There was a bedroom at the top.

Like the rest of the apartment, the furniture was long gone. But somehow, he knew that the bed had gone _there_ , along that wall. And a desk had been _there_ , beneath the dormer window. As he moved further into the room, his foot kicked something that scuffed against the carpet. When he bent down to pick it up, he saw that it was a playing card like the ones in his vision. The back was a vortex of swirling browns, while the front showed a picture of a man in strange purple armor. Holding the card, he got another flash of memory, this time of _a young man with dirty-blond hair laughing as he waved the card out of reach over his head, while a shorter boy hopped futilely after it_.

Shaking his head as if he could knock loose the confusion with the sharp movement, he let the card - once more just a rectangle of pasteboard - drop. He stepped on it as he shuffled further into the room.

He remembered: soft flannel pajamas (light blue, covered in yellow stars), an alarm clock with a grinning face, posters on the wall, books and boardgames on the shelves. An ordinary room, for an ordinary boy.

A boy who had gone to school, been bullied, made friends, worked in the game shop, graduated, become an ordinary man.

Fitting the bits and pieces of himself into place was like putting together a golden puzzle, each memory illuminating the dark space where his sense of self resided.

He once had a family.

 _Mom (holding a ladle)_ , _Grandpa (laughing over a winning hand of cards)_...

He once lived in this place with his family.

 _Mom threatening him with the ladle for making a mess (socks covering his bedroom floor) when he was supposed to be cleaning up; Mom tucking him into bed when he was sick. Helping Grandpa in the game shop downstairs. Grandpa teaching him to play Duel Monsters, helping him make his first deck. Waving to him in front of the game shop._

He once had a home here, and a family.

 _A crash, somewhere out of sight... downstairs? Shouting. Strange voices, then Grandpa- Rushing to the stairs, and down. Strange sound (gunshot) and a scream (Mom), "Grandpa!" Another gunshot. "Mom! No!"_

 _Not dead, not yet. (kinder if they had been) ...The sounds of fists striking flesh. Flesh on vulnerable flesh. (No! Mom!) Mocking laughter, high and manic. His own voice, pleading until his breath ran out._

 _And then so much pain, as his heart lies bleeding on the floor, his family, blind eyes staring into eternity and seeing nothing. He's always hated fighting, hated violence, but in that moment, he thinks he could kill-_

 _And then there's nothing but darkness, rage, and endless sorrow._

He stumbled back, as if he could retreat from the images, the memories, but the knowledge follows him. They're gone: Mom, Grandpa. Dead, violated, murdered in front of him. He didn't recognize their killers, had no idea why anyone would want to hurt his family or him. He had no idea why he was here now. Alone, but for the strange voice... and the crow.

But he remembered.

He remembered that he loved his family.

He remembered that his name was Yugi Mutou.

o0o

 _In visions of the dark night_

 _I have dreamed of joy departed-_

 _But a waking dream of life and light_

 _Hath left me broken-hearted._

\- Poe, (A Dream)


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

 _The cold - the changed - perchance the dead - anew,_

 _The mourned, the loved, the lost -_

\- Byron, (Childe Harold, Canto IV)

For a long time after the pieces clicked into place in his mind, all Yugi could do was kneel in the center of his childhood bedroom and weep.

When he eventually stumbled out of the former game shop, he felt hollow. He huddled in his jacket, drawing it around him like a cloak against the eyes of passing strangers, and walked slowly into the awakening city. It was still raining, a miserable cold drizzle, and the people walking along the sidewalks mostly ignored him as they hurried about their business. The watery light was gray as dishwater, the sky bruised and heavy with clouds. There was no sign of the crow that had guided him to the game shop.

Left to his own devices, he had no idea what to do or where to go next. His memory was still jumbled, full of holes and uncertainties. With his family dead, he didn't know who might help him. He didn't know what he was supposed to do, or how to go about doing it. Legally, he didn't even exist as anything other than a corpse in a coffin.

 _Domino City_. The name floated up from the dark abyss of his slowly settling memories. He didn't think the city had changed much from what he recalled of it. Occasionally, a store front or building would snag on the edge of a protruding memory and he would stumble to a halt as it assailed his conscious mind. The looming silver spider atop the old arcade gave him a flash of that blond teenage boy again, making faces as he concentrated on a video game. Try as he might, Yugi couldn't put a name with that face, though he knew it was the face of a friend. When a few minutes of staring at the sign brought no further insight, he moved on.

As he walked, he kept getting glimpses of a tall building towering above the roofs of the lesser structures surrounding it. There was something familiar about it, in the same way that the arcade had been familiar. As if he had some personal connection with it. With no better destination, and the hope that there might be something there to further jog his recalcitrant memory, Yugi began making his way toward the tower.

o0o

The office building was tall, higher than its immediate neighbors, and the kind of ultra-modern architecture that screamed 'look at how unique I am!' in the exact same way as the buildings it wanted to be better than. The lobby of the ugly tower was decorated in Corporate Excess, all polished marble, gleaming chrome, and shining glass. The effect was luxurious but cold, like one of those hotels made entirely of ice. Yugi stood in the center of the huge room with its soaring ceiling, and dripped rainwater on the expensive floor tiles while he tried to work out the reason behind the impulse which had brought him here.

After a moment or two, he became aware of someone watching him. Turning slowly in a circle, he finally spotted the watchers: a receptionist behind the tall desk that dominated the rear wall of the lobby, and a pair of security guards, one of whom was now making her way toward him. She had one hand on her heavy belt, near her holstered weapon. The other hand was half-lifted, as if she was about to reach out and take hold of his arm.

When she was close enough to speak in a conversational tone and be heard, the security guard asked, "Sir? Do you need help?"

 _More than you can possibly imagine_ , he thought. Aloud, he said, "What building is this?"

Her face did a thing, like she couldn't believe anyone in Domino City would need to ask that question. "This is Kaiba Corporation headquarters, sir."

In one sense, the name meant nothing to him; he had no context for it. But "Kaiba," at least, sounded familiar. It brought with it a flash of a tall, brown-haired man with icy blue eyes and a haughty bearing. Encourage that there might be something here for him, something that could unlock more of his past, Yugi asked, "Have I been here before?" He didn't think it was likely. But maybe someone here knew him?

"Sir...?" The guard's initial concern had returned, this time with an overlay of suspicion. "Do you need me to call someone for you? A friend or... a doctor?"

Oh. She thought he was mentally ill. Or maybe injured? Either way, at least she was being nice about it. And he wasn't entirely certain she was wrong. Apparently, coming back from the dead wasn't exactly the best way to a healthy mental state. He couldn't really say he recommended it.

"No, thank you," he said, and continued looking around. He still hoped that something would spark a memory, but nothing leaped out at him from the generic corporate decor. Clearly, he hadn't spent much time here. "I'm sorry to have bothered you."

When he started back toward the entrance, she fell into step, escorting him out. They had just reached the doors when a voice called frantically from behind them. "Wait! Don't let him leave!"

Glancing back, Yugi saw the young man from the reception desk sprinting toward them, one hand outstretched as if he was going to grab Yugi to prevent him from leaving. Panting, the man slid to a stop in front of them and spent a few seconds gulping in air before finally gasping out, "Mr. Kaiba wants to speak with him."

The guard looked skeptical. "Mr. Kaiba wants to see this guy?"

The young man nodded with such enthusiasm he nearly lost his glasses. "Right away!" He pushed the glasses back up on his nose and focused on Yugi. "If you'll come with me, sir, I'll take you to Mr. Kaiba's office."

That name again. What was the connection? Yugi shrugged. What did he have to lose? "All right. Take me to Kaiba."

o0o

It was purely coincidence that Seto Kaiba had been in the security room when the guy who could _not_ be Yugi Mutou walked into the tower lobby. Mind on the technical problem that had brought him there, he almost didn't notice the impossible, familiar face on one of the monitors. Then something about the shape of the figure - that wild, gravity-defying hair (though it hung limply now, wet with rain) - caught his eye and he broke off mid-sentence to stare at the image on the monitor screen.

The technician to whom Seto had been speaking cast him a confused look. "...Mr. Kaiba?"

Still staring at his dead rival's image, Seto barely heard her. He reached for the intercom and buzzed the tower's reception desk. When the receptionist answered, Seto said, "Get that man up to my office. _Now_."

He didn't wait for the acknowledgement before turning and striding for the elevator.

o0o

The person who walked into his office wasn't at all what Seto was expecting. When he had seen that face on the security monitors, his first thought had been that it was an overzealous fan, or maybe a con-man out to capitalize on Mutou's notoriety. But the young man standing before him was subdued, looking around as if dazed by his surroundings. There was nothing of Yugi Mutou's infuriating, upbeat energy about his doppleganger. The physical resemblence was uncanny, almost perfect, but his attitude and personality were miles off-target.

"Who are you?" Seto growled, forcing his fists to unclench. He'd be damned if he was going to let this little punk see how much he had affected Seto.

"Yugi Mutou." The voice sounded right, if a bit uncertain. "And you're Seto Kaiba." Something in the way he said Seto's name made it sound as if the Mutou lookalike thought it was an accomplishment to recognize him.

"You expect me to believe that you're Yugi Mutou - the same Yugi Mutou who died a year ago, and whose coffin I watched being lowered into his grave." It wasn't a question. "If this is some kind of joke, I'm afraid the punchline is eluding me."

The imposter's shoulders hunched. He stared at the floor, face mostly hidden by his lank, damp hair. "It's not a joke... Or, if it is, then I think the joke's on me."

"So, what? You're a ghost?" Seto scoffed. "I hope you didn't actually expect me to fall for that bullshit."

The imposter shrugged.

"There's no such thing as ghosts. The dead don't come back," Seto snapped, suddenly seeing red. How dare this person pretend to be Mutou? How dare he resurrect emotions Seto had buried a year ago along with his rival. "I don't know what your game is, but I'm not going to play it."

"If this is a game, no one's told me the rules." The imposter turned away from him and examined the view from the floor-to-ceiling windows that made up the back wall of Seto's office. "I just want to know what happened to me and my family."

"Look it up. I'm sure the Mutous' deaths made the papers."

Fists clenched at the imposter's sides, then relaxed. He tilted his head oddly, almost like a bird, as he turned back to look at Seto. "Are you telling me don't know?"

"Of course, I know. I just don't see why I should tell _you_. If you're going to try to pull off a hoax like this, you should do your damn research." Seto reached for the intercom on his desk, fully intending to call security and have the imposter thrown out now that his morbid curiosity had been satisfied. Or maybe to have the son of a bitch arrested. No need to let him wander around pretending to be Mutou and stirring up trouble. "I've put up with this foolishness long enough. You can peddle your delusions to the police-"

"Why bring me up here if you didn't believe I'm _me_?" The imposter's voice sounded plaintive.

Seto sneered. He refused to tell the other man the truth: that Seto had seen Yugi Mutou's face on that security monitor and had felt something almost like hope. That was a truth he'd take with him to his own grave. Shaking his head, Seto started to depress the call button on the intercom.

A hand came down on his, pulling it away from the intercom and forcing it flat on the desk.

" _Show me_ ," the imposter demanded, and suddenly his voice sounded deeper than Mutou's ever had, deeper and somehow _darker_. His pale fingers curled around Seto's wrist, his grip hard enough to hurt. For some reason, Seto's eye caught on the imposter's nails, colorless except for the black stain bleeding up from the cuticles like some Goth version of a French manicure. And then his gaze flicked up to the imposter's face and everything stopped making sense.

The imposter's face was white as death, except for the sooty lines that bled like black tears from his eyes. His mouth was set, lips pressed into a thin line, but more black streaks - sketched sloppily from ebon-painted lips to pale cheeks - turned his expression into the grim parody of a smile.

Ignoring the icy fingers that skittered down his spine, Seto tried to yank his arm free. "What the hell are you?"

" _Show me_ , Kaiba," the imposter repeated, in that same commanding tone. His grip tightened; it was going to bruise. How in the hell was someone so slender so strong? His free hand rose to brush against Seto's temple. "Show me what you _know_."

Seto tried to jerk away from the touch of that unnaturally cold hand. "I don't know what you're talking about!"

Without warning, and with no conscious effort on his part, Seto's mind dredged up the image of the crime report he'd had no business seeing, but had nonetheless bribed his way into acquiring. Awful images, captured on film, of blood and broken bodies. And then the scene shifted: a place of shadows, an impossible bridge, Mutou plummeting through ashen fog, and the shriek of a tormented soul-

Seto lurched away, wrenching the wrist still trapped in the imposter's iron grip. The room swam around him, threatening to tip him off his feet. Even as the world dimmed and Seto stumbled hard into the desk, pain shooting through his hip, he heard the other's deep voice cry out. The vice-like hand on his wrist vanished and, with it, the last anchor keeping Seto upright.

He barely felt the pain when he crashed to floor, striking desk and chair on the way down, and everything spiraled to black.

o0o

 _A wretched soul, bruised with adversity._

\- Shakespeare, (Comedy of Errors, Act ii. Sc. 1)


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

 _The silent room, the heavy creeping shade,_

 _The dead that travel fast, the opening door,_

 _The murdered brother rising through the floor..._

\- Oscar Wilde

Joey Wheeler hadn't known what to think when _Seto Kaiba_ , of all people, called and basically demanded that Joey come to Seto's mansion, _right now_. Naturally, the jackass refused to tell Joey what he wanted, just hinted vaguely that it was something "important." In Joey's experience, Kaiba's idea of important rarely intersected with his own. Still, when the white town car arrived on the street outside Joey's apartment building, he got in. If nothing else, he wanted to know what kind of bug Kaiba had up his butt this time.

The driver apparently wasn't one for casual conversation, since he didn't say a word to Joey for the length of the short drive to Kaiba's overpriced mansion on the outskirts of town. To be fair, Joey supposed he shouldn't blame Kaiba for the house, since that had been _Gozaburo_ Kaiba's choice, but Seto still lived there, so maybe he deserved fifty percent of Joey's derision. The place was huge, of course, and way more than a bachelor needed, even one with a younger brother who spent the occasional weekend in the old mausoleum.

Joey smirked; he knew it still galled Kaiba that Mokuba had moved out. He huffed a tiny laugh. Served the guy right for not supporting Mokuba's career choices. Just because _Kaiba_ didn't think starting a band was a good idea.

Or maybe it was because Mokuba had named the band _The Dark Magicians_. Dragon-boy never had liked it when anyone preferred any Duel Monsters card over his precious Dragons. Joey shook his head. They were all a long way from those teenagers playing card games. It was definitely past time for Seto Kaiba to get over it (and himself). Maybe Joey'd offer to build him a bridge.

The town car (and Joey was only now, with thoughts of Kaiba's Blue-Eyes White Dragons fresh on his mind, realizing that it fit Kaiba's usual theme: blue interior, gleaming white exterior) glided to a halt in front of the mansion and the driver opened the door for him.

"Thanks, pal." Joey wondered briefly if he should offer a tip, but the guy slid back into the car and pulled away before Joey could make up his mind. "Okay, then. Nice talkin' at ya."

He sauntered up the steps to the double doors, which opened at his approach. A freakin' _butler_ , of all things, bowed him into the house.

"Mr. Kaiba is waiting in his study," the butler said, somehow managing to judge Joey with his tone without actually saying anything insulting. That was some impressive skills, there. Joey was vaguely jealous, and thought about asking the dude if he gave lessons. That kind of talent would come in handy when dealing with smug little shits on the professional tournament circuit.

The butler had the kind of ramrod stiff posture that made Joey's spine ache just to look at, so he turned his gaze to his surroundings as he strolled after the guy on the way to (presumably) Kaiba's study. The damn house was huge, and Joey was glad for the escort. You probably needed GPS to find your way around in this place, or at least a map and a compass. The rooms echoed, ridiculously high ceilings and stone or hardwood floors making every tap of the butler's shoe heels crack like gunshots. Joey's own rubber soles squeaked obnoxiously against the floor, which made him grin when the butler shot him an annoyed-without-having-an-actual-expression look over his shoulder.

Finally, they reached the "study," which turned out to be a home office or library or something, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a massive wooden desk roughly the size of the _Titanic_. Seated behind the desk, in a leather upholstered chair that could've moonlighted as a throne, was Seto Kaiba.

"About time you got here, Wheeler," Kaiba growled, after the butler had announced Joey like they were in an episode of some period drama on PBS. The butler had then promptly fucked off to go do butler things. Given that Kaiba's presence generally made Joey go from chill to pissed in zero point two seconds, Joey half-wished he'd gone with him.

"Charmin' as ever, Kaiba." Joey flopped down onto the stiff chair positioned in front of the desk and tried to sit as offensively as humanly possible. From the look on Kaiba's face, he was succeeding. "Mind telling me what you dragged me all the way out here for? If it's to try to talk me into talking Mokuba into giving up his teenage rebellion, you can forget it."

"Musician is no career for-" Kaiba broke off before the rant really got going and pinched the bridge of his nose like he was trying to squeeze a headache to death between his fingers. "That's not why- I don't even-"

"Wow. I ain't seen you this flustered since the Battle City finals, when that one guy was trippin' balls and thought he was seein' real monsters instead of holograms." Joey was torn between sitting back to enjoy the show and being genuinely worried. It took a lot to throw Seto Kaiba off his game. In fact... He squinted at the other man, only now notiicing his rather beat-up appearance. There was a long red scratch on one cheek, another on his chin, a ring of purple bruises around one wrist, and Kaiba was moving stiffly, as if sore from recent injury. "What happened to you? You look like you lost a fight with a weed whacker."

Kaiba glared at him, brushed absent fingers over his battered face, then swiveled his throne to let him direct his next words to the darker shadows at the back of the room. "You explain it to him!"

Curious as to what the hell was going on, Joey leaned to the side and peered in the direction Kaiba was looking. A slight figure stood in the gloom, little more than a vague outline in the dim lighting near the bookcases. It walked toward them, steps slow and measured, gaining definition as it neared. And then the figure stepped fully into the light of the desk lamp and Joey felt his heart stutter in his chest and the bottom drop outta his stomach, because what he was seeing wasn't possible.

" _Yugi_?!" For a moment, Joey thought his heart had stopped. Time seemed to freeze, darkness swooping around him like he'd pass out at any second. Then everything started moving again, including him, as he leaped from his chair. " _Oh, my god_. How-? Yugi, is that really you?"

The impossible vision waved a tentative hand. "Hey, Joey."

The hesitation in that familiar voice struck Joey as wrong on many levels. Something was wonky about this entire situation, and not just the fact that Joey was staring at someone who looked just like his friend, who'd been dead and buried a year to the day. Joey shot a glance at Kaiba that demanded answers right this minute. "What the hell is goin' on, rich boy?!"

"That's the question of the hour, isn't it," Kaiba said, in a voice weighted down with the kind of exhaustion that only came from a fuck-ton of mental stress.

Joey, who had been exposed to this for about three seconds and already felt like he needed a week-long nap, could sympathize. He decided to cut to the chase. "Is that really Yugi?"

"As far as I can tell, yes." Kaiba scrubbed a hand over his face. "There was- He showed me- Never mind. Suffice it to say, I'm convinced of his identity. If you want more proof than that, you're on your own."

There was obviously a story there, but Joey let it go for now.

Brows furrowing, Joey studied the person who might be Yugi Mutou. The other man was just standing there, hands loose at his sides, head tilted down so his gaze was focused somewhere in the vicinity of his shoes. His trademark head of unruly hair was suffering the affects of humidity and what looked to be the aftermath of a thorough soaking, bedraggled blond bangs clinging to his forehead and cheeks and the usual red-tipped spikes wilted and tangled. He was dressed all in black, from his muscle shirt and jeans to the silver-studded boots on his feet. The only color, aside from his hair, came from the hooded jacket draped over his shoulders like a cape. While the jacket itself was black, it was lined in a slick red fabric that, in the half-light, looked disturbingly like fresh blood.

"Hey, pal. You, uh, you remember me?" Joey asked, feeling his gut twist.

Maybe-Yugi raised his head - and, yeah, those were Yugi's eyes, big and twilight-blue, and gentle enough to melt the coldest heart. He met Joey's gaze for a moment, then looked away again. "I kind of do. I remember playing cards with you? Maybe some kind of contests, too."

"Duel Monsters, yeah! We used to play that all the time. Your grandpa-" Joey had to swallow before he could finish that thought. "He taught me how to play. I used to come over to your place and practice all the time."

"Oh."

In the ensuing silence, the ghost of Solomon Mutou seemed to hover among the shadows lurking at the edges of the room. Naturally, it was Kaiba who bulled into the emotional moment, and for once Joey was grateful for the other man's stubborn lack of emotional awareness.

"This is all very touching," Kaiba said, in a voice entirely devoid of sentiment. "But I'd like you dweebs out of my house before dinnertime. I've done my part-" He shot Yugi another dark look. "-so you two can handle things from here."

Yeah, 'cause Joey handled his best friend coming back from the dead every damn day. No sweat. Fists clenching, he was about half a second from giving Kaiba a piece of his mind for real when he caught a glimpse of the utter devastation in Yugi's eyes. It cut the ground right out from under him. Instead of punching Kaiba in his smug face, Joey forced his fists to open and moved around the desk to lay hand on Yugi's shoulder.

"Just tell me what you need, pal."

Eyes like bruises met his, and a voice filled with all the earnestness Joey remembered Yugi being capable of mustering said, "Help me find the ones who killed me."

o0o

" _No matter how dark the moment, love and hope are always possible_."

\- George Chakiris


End file.
